


Dilemma

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Power and the money, money and the power, minute after minute, hour after hour, everybody's running, but half of them ain't lookin’, what's going on in the kitchen, but I don't know what's cookin'.” The guy pauses his litany to take a swill of what Nate guesses is coffee or at least a vaguely coffee-like substance. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Nate to make his move.<br/>(February 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Nelly song.  
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/163928.html?thread=1656152#t1656152).)

_It’s bigger on the inside,_ is the first thought Nate has driving through the gates at Pendleton. He stops at the first guard shack, handing over his ID and idling his graduation present Jetta. He clears security and is directed to turn left at the second y-intersection. Nate hates driving in Baltimore when he manages to make it back to see his parents, but he does miss the logic of the grid system.  
  
Two wrong turns and one beautifully executed three-point-turn later, Nate is parked in front of a low-slung non-descript building identified only as ‘Building 90’ on the outside. His skin prickles with cooling sweat as he climbs out, adjusting his soft cover and snagging a laptop case out of the backseat.  
  
Marines are purposefully walking from building to building, some with papers, others with duffels slung over their shoulders. He can hear distant shouts of insults intermixed with moto from one of the tracks. No one seems to be wasting time.  
  
It’s different from the first time he walked on a base, still cherry from OCS. War has an uncanny ability to focus the attention of the people actually on the ground. Rumors of a possible second front opening in this still-new, still-confusing post-9/11 world are flying faster than that time in junior high when _everyone_ knew by second period that Brenda Meyers slept with a senior. Nate inhales deeply, letting the slightly salty taste lodge near the back of his tongue.  
  
He is ready to meet his new brothers.

 

-

 

Nate doesn’t even make it inside the building. A scrawny ( _wiry_ , Nate mentally corrects) guy whose head comes up to approximately Nate’s shoulders stops him less than ten feet from the door. He’s sitting on the back of a metal bench and singing something under his breath, shoulders keeping time. Nate can’t make out the words until he’s nearly on top of the guy, and then there’s a smirk slashing across his face before he can tamp down the reaction.  
  
“Power and the money, money and the power, minute after minute, hour after hour, everybody's running, but half of them ain't lookin’, what's going on in the kitchen, but I don't know what's cookin'.” The guy pauses his litany to take a swill of what Nate guesses is coffee or at least a vaguely coffee-like substance. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Nate to make his move.  
  
“They say I gotta learn, but nobody's here to teach me, if they can't understand it, how can they reach me.”  
  
The guy, _corporal_ Nate notes, smiles with just a touch of mania around the edges. His right leg is jostling like this might not be his first cup of coffee today. Nate really doesn’t want to know if it’s laced with anything else.  
  
“You must be new, LT.”  
  
Nate thinks his surprise is kept in check. “What gave it away?” He’s curious despite himself.  
  
“Most of these whiskey tango fucktards just shuffle right into the cattle chute to be shipped to some bumfuck, ass-backwards country we’re only going to fuck up worse before turning the mess over to some under-trained, trigger-happy U.N. peacekeeping force that’s going to retreat on the eve of some civil fucking war caused by one stray bullet turning a future child soldier into a martyr.”  
  
Nate’s still somewhere back at the image of the cattle chute. “And I’m…”  
  
“Clearly someone who hasn’t yet been broken of your liberal parents’ bullshit belief in respectfully questioning authority or giving a dollar to the homeless guy on the street. The Corps hasn’t taken your brains yet.”  
  
Nate feels like he’s missed some vital part of this conversation. He’s almost sorry he stopped. The guy takes another sip of coffee, waiting for him to catch up. “The Corps may not yet have another zombie on their hands, but they do have my balls somewhere in storage. I’ve got the receipt here to pick them up in six months’ time. Corporal?”  
  
The corporal’s bemused grin widens into a smile full of teeth. “Person.”  
  
Nate feels like he’s passed some sort of test, the first rite of initiation. “Gunny Wynn sends his regrets, but he is currently berating the TLs into some sort of respectable warrior band, sir. I am to escort you over there.”  
  
The skill on display, rough around the edges though it may be, is clear. Recon is definitely not going to be the same as infantry.  
  
“As long as Gunny doesn’t turn them into the Sacred Band of Thebes, I trust his judgment.”  
  
Person appears to be appraising him as he finishes his coffee. “Shit. You and Brad are going to sit around doing the Sunday crossword in pen and then put on matching polo shirts to rake the sand out of the yard.”  
  
Nate has no idea who Brad is, but he’s vaguely uncomfortable with what Person’s implying. Person climbs off the bench. “Does this mean I’m going to have to teach you to read, too? Corporal, they neglected to inform me that Recon actually meant an illiterate group of assholes hanging around inner-city LA.”  
  
Person _laughs_. Nate’s going to have to police his reactions better. “Yeah, you’re all right.”  
  
“Hoorah.”  
  
“Respectfully, sir, we don’t need that moto bullshit. Best to save it for command.” Person leads them around the building, heading in the general direction of a training pool. Nate feels the bottom of his stomach drop away fractionally. Person’s singing under his breath again, something decidedly more recent.  
  
“’Cause I wait for my cue and just listen, play my position, like a shortstop, pick up e’rything mami hittin’” Person gets to the end of the verse and then turns to Nate, waiting for him to jump in on the hook.  
  
“I don’t sing bitch, Person.” Nate thinks the entirety of Pendleton can hear Person’s answering guffaw.


End file.
